Music?

 
Music?
 
Does music tell us of a culture’s soul? 
If so, then ours is torn and wracked indeed
With rage, frustration—lacking bliss and peace,
Reflecting, darkly, worlds of fear and greed.
If music turns to a tool for torture, then 
What chance is there for healing, born of Zen?
 
Our music once had grace, with Nature's sounds,
The moods of seasons and of times of day.
These touched the heart and gently moved the soul,
And so returned us towards the peaceful way.
But now, of all of this, there's little trace.
Its guns and pistons lead away from grace. 
 
We should not rush to blame the music. It
Is but a mirror of the world we've built.
We’re disconnected from the rest of life—
Absorbed in self, avoiding silence, guilt. 
And so we deafen ears and dazzle eyes. 
Our soul's disturbance speaks in music’s guise.
 
2024 March 6th, Wed.
Berkeley, California
 

Time Again to Run

 
Time Again to Run

There are nuances in nature.
There are shades within ourselves.
But it's "winner" and it's "loser"
For the Donald and his elves.

You are for me or against me.
We are born to run, compete.
So it's victory for the winner.
For the others, it's defeat.

There's a better way to do things—
And there always is the best.
To be quick and more efficient
Is the teaching of the West.

And how the East has taken
That message to its heart!
They will take that style of running
And make, of it, an art.

In the cities by the seaside,
You can see the women run.
They have little time for leisure,
They have little time for fun.

And the leisure they're permitted—
It is not what it should be.
By the shore, the waves are breaking.
But who is there to see?

It's the leisure for consumption.
It's the tour of packaged fun.
It's the holiday that's over,
So it's time again to run.

They run in Hiroshima.
They're racing in Shenzhen.
And in Ho Chi Minh City,
It is time to run again.

2016 October 30, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
  
https://www.facebook.com/riaz.quadir/posts/10155361065997678
  
https://www.facebook.com/riaz.quadir/posts/10155361065997678?comment_id=10155373674602678&comment_tracking=%7B%22tn%22%3A%22R%22%7D

  

Sing the Songs of Tenderness

 
Sing the Songs of Tenderness

The mother whispers lullabies
To soothe her child to sleep—
For there's a time to wake and then
A time to slumber deep.

The piper leads the men to war;
The drums are beating loud.
But when the men return, we see—
Of war, they're rarely proud.

There is a time for speeding and
There is a time to slow.
Too much of one or other leads
To sorrows, more and more.

We've spent our lives in rushing and
We've fed the fires of war.
Let's sing the songs of peace, so we
Remember who we are.

We aren't only soldiers; we
Are not just worker ants.
We also need to smile, to weep,
To kiss and gently dance.

So sing the songs of gentleness;
Sing the songs of love.
Sing the songs of mellow times,
Of languor and of joy.
 
The profits and the wounding grow.
It's healing that we lack.
From Mars and Mammon, let us take
Our Muse and Music back..
   
******
 
There's grief enough to fill the world—
The wars that do not end
And all the cruelties of men
That rend our bodies, hearts.
   
There's separation, illness, death,
The dashing of our dreams,
The waste of labor and of lives,
The loss of treasured stores.

We do not wish to only hear
The pistons and the guns,
The screams, the paeans to the self,
The cacophonous blasts.

So keep from us the bang, the screech,
The speeding, pounding beat
And all the noise that emulates
The wars and factories.

******

We go to work as if to war.
The struggles never end—
For each competes with others and,
To orders, must attend.
 
There's little time to draw a breath
And let it out in peace—
To watch the child or kitten play,
To visit aunt or niece.

We rush about in vehicles—
In cars, in buses, trains.
How rarely can we slowly walk,
So all the madness wanes?

Why waste our time in meanness and
In giving more of pain?
Why spend our lives in earning, when
We only lose from gain?
     
What point is there in battles that
Destroy the heart and soul?
There's need for more of healing and
For all that makes us whole.

So sing the songs of tenderness,
Of softness and of love,
To smooth the furrowed brow awhile
And soothe the hurt within.
 
There's time enough for speeding, yet
There's little time to slow.
So sing the songs that slow the pace
Before it's time to go.
   
2016 February 27th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
 

Ghouls

  

Ghouls

   

When living in a city such as this,

One wonders where the virtues all have gone.

For here’s a source of much of all the vice

That darkens this, the planet we are on… 

   

And some will say, “This place is not the worst.”

And this might be, for famine, war, disease

Are horrors – that our burghers here are spared – 

Whose ravages, in places far, increase.

   

And surely, there are decent folk who live

In cities such as this, where Mammon rules.

But these are quiet. They accept the vice,

For those who don’t are treated here as fools.

   

What place is there, in such a city, for

The ones who dream – or even write in verse?

Along with those, who point to right and wrong,

Such folk receive the cynic’s shrug – or curse.

   

What space is there, in such a race as this,

For those who pause or even dare to stand?

For both of these require a state of mind

The racers shun and will not understand. 

   

There’s sugar piled in heaps along the streets

But even children do not pause to taste.

And only when the pavements too are glazed

Do passersby attempt to check their haste.

  

For this is New York City – as in towns,

Across the world, of industry, finance,

The citizens are racing.  Each awakes

To those alarms that start the fevered dance.

   

You’ll see them running, so’s to catch the train.

You’ll catch them napping, while they ride, because

They’re short of sleep. So workers feed the fire

In which they burn.  The mills can never pause.

   

Some race because they must, to just survive,

But others have the dollar in the eye.

“Accumulate, and in the hustle, thrive!

And shove aside the ones, who question why!”

   

So finer instincts yield to coarser ones

As each competes and pushes, pulls in turn.

So men and women turn to zombies crazed,

As spirit’s ashes fill the urban urn.

     

It’s winter.  So the heaps are fallen snow

That’s sullied by the city’s soot – with light

Reflecting still from crystals – in the day

From angled sun – and from the lamps at night. 

  

But soon enough, the snow will turn to slush

And people, as they wade the pools, will curse,

As poets too, whose shoes and socks are soaked

With fluids dark and chill, neglect their verse…

   

So beauty is ignored, until it turns

To ugliness that taxes weary souls.

For this is New York City – like its twins,

Around the globe, whose denizens are ghouls.

  

They came from places far, from villages

Where people had the time to sit, converse – 

Or even towns where paces might have been

A little slower, and the speech less terse.

   

What happened?  You can see it in the kids.

In places such as this, you’ll often find,

Among the ones who still are whole, the ones

Afflicted with the illnesses of mind.

    

2015 February 7th, Sat.

(with stanzas added Feb. 8th, Sun.)

Brooklyn, New York 

   

Solace

 
Solace
 
On days when I’ve been overwhelmed by stress
but still have somehow put the work to rest,
on walking home, I’m freed awhile to breathe,
observe and contemplate the flow of life.

And I confess, at times I seek escape –
and when I’m able, fly away in mind
to walk beside a broad and flowing river –
far from cities built on greed and fear.
 
Let men devour each other, seek to climb
where base or high ambition bids them to.
Let those like me, of humbler needs, repair
to where such rivers, in their natures, flow.
 
The sun is shining on the waves, the wind
is blowing through the waving grass – and clouds
are soaring in the arcing dome of blue.
I hear the wind, the lapping waves and more.
 
The sound of birds perhaps – the distant moo,
the flute that’s playing from the orchard grove…
Ah, sit in corner-offices on high,
but let us be, to walk in fields alone…
 
On walking home at dusk, I see the stars
appearing one by one above.  I see the trees
that stand as still and silent sentinels...
And so, this son of earth and sky revives…
 
So each seeks refuge from the cruel game –
and each, if lucky, finds a place of peace,
from which to draw the spirit's sustenance –
for otherwise, a soulless shell remains.
 
2015 January 1st, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Slow

 
If only I could follow this advice, during the working
day in my school-teaching job, here in New York City...
------------------------------------------------------------------
 
Slow
  
If I could say one word to all the folk
who’d care to hear, the word I’d say to them
is “Slow.”

Walk slower to your work and back.  And work
a little slower, taking more of care
and even fussing, with the work you do.

In speech, be slower. Be considerate.
Refrain from words that hurt or give offence.
And don’t say, “Hurry.” Modulate your speech
to give yourselves and those who hear the time
to truly speak and hear what’s said.  Recall
that speaking is an art, as hearing is –
and neither should be rushed or desperate.

Be slower in your thoughts and actions. Think
of what you do and what its purpose is.

Compulsive thought and speech and action lead
to more compulsion and to misery.

But you might say that in the mad stampede,
the one who slows or pauses might be killed.
And you are right in this, to some degree.

So slow a teeny bit.  Let others slow
around you.  Give them time to breathe.
Perhaps you’ll see, about you, grows a space
where beings are, as beings true –
where there is time – that precious time they need
for thought, reflection, noticing, for care –
for wonder, musing – even hope and love…

The greed and fear that drive the human world,
the engines of our mad economies –
have made us hurry, hurry through our lives –
with little time for pause and savoring.

Resist. Resist the hurry, fear and greed.
Resist the rush – be gentle in your ways…

So breathe the air and slowly let it out…
Be slow, in what you do and speak and think.

Let others hurry, hurry to their graves.
Go slowly, slowly to the death that waits,
so when you leave, you’ll know that you have lived
and left some space, so others too can live.

And so I say, to all who care to hear,
“Go slow, go slow, and spread the word to all.

“And most will disregard you, some will laugh
and others vilify you.  Let them be.

“But others, you will find, will hear, and they
will also try to take the time to pause,
to notice and to care – to slow again
and be what you and they can truly be.”
 
2014  October 22nd, Wed., 6:04 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
 

Never See the Light / Who's to Blame?

Never See the Light / Who's to Blame?

There are some, who'd change the planet. 
Those more humble, change themselves.
Of ourselves, we have some knowledge.  
We know little of the rest.
  
We can try to change what's local, 
Which are things of which we know.
Let the locals settle issues, 
As they know those issues best.

******
  
There is madness in the workplace, there is madness in the home.
Our children grow demented and our elders lose their minds.
And is this from calamity that Nature wrought – or war?
It's us.  We live in darkness, for we've shuttered all the blinds.

There is madness in our cities, and in places near and far.
We follow basest instincts – so a virtue is a vice.
And is this by an order that was given from above?
It's us.  We've turned so horrid, we've forgotten to be nice.

The positions that we're placed in, where there's little room for love,
Situations in the workplace, and the pressures on our kids,
They're the things that make for madness.  We are running in a herd,
And the ones who aren't running, they may end up in the skids.

So the soldiers in their battles, who will fight and die unheard,
They will slay the ones they're fighting, and will rarely question why.
They are following their orders and have lives that are at stake,
For the one, who ceases fighting, will be likeliest to die.

Are there exits from this madness?  Can we say, “It's a mistake!”?
Can the workers slow from working?  Can the soldiers cease to fight?
I do not know the answers to these questions, but I know,
That until we get the answers, we will never see the light.

So I'm asking you these questions, and I will not take a “No!
I do not wish to answer.  We are helpless in this game.”
For your life and mine are in it – and the children's, who are next.
If we do not ask or answer, then we know who is to blame.

For we each may do our duties, mind our business, not be vexed,
But the things that are unraveled, they won't ravel of themselves.
If we do not know the answers, we should seek for answers, or
The children will be saying that we only thought of selves.

*******
    
Let me pause awhile for breathing.  
Should I rage against what's crazed
Till I drive myself to madness 
And I leave you all enraged?
  
Let us pause to breathe -- and slowly.  
Can we right the local wrongs?
I shall leave you now to ponder -- 
Are we free -- or are we caged?

2013 October 20th, Sun.
Brooklyn 

Related Post:  The Small and Easy Lie
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/10/the-small-and-easy-lie.html 

Comments are welcome:  You can leave comments below.
      

My Dream

My Dream  
                        
When I grow up, I would like to be
The man who picks up the garbage.

Early in the morning, when everyone's asleep,
I would ride on the back of the garbage truck
And would hop off to pick up the garbage.

I would lift up the bags and throw them,
I would bang on the metal cans.
And some of the sleepers would wake up
And some would mutter and curse.
And the smell of the rotting garbage
Would fill up the morning air.

And then I would call to the driver –
And the truck, it would move with a roar.
I'd hop on that truck.  To the next one,
With that noise and that smell, we would go.

And that is my dream, Mr. Teacher,
The dream that you asked me to write.
I hope that you'll give me a 100.
What you gave me before wasn't fair.

My dream is to pick up the garbage,
To join with the garbage men.
I've heard that they're paid good money,
And the smell washes off when they shower...

My dream is to pick up the garbage,
To be a garbage man.
But I'm told that it it isn't easy.
I really hope I can.

The jobs nowadays aren't many.
My father's unemployed...

I hope that I'll get a paycheck,
And be married too, with kids...

Do you think, if I do all my classwork,
And my homework, every day,
And I pass all those tests you give us,
My dream will come real, one day?

2013 August 16th, Fri.
Brooklyn
 

Cadences – Part I

Cadences – Part I  
         
A summer sky of blue and glowing white,
An evening breeze, with waving leaves – and I
Am as fulfilled or more, as those with wealth,
Who'd rarely find, in these, their hearts' content.

How simple are our basic needs, and yet
We find ourselves entrapped.  The endless race
To nowhere picks up speed, or faltering,
Creates conditions for yet more of stress.

So autumn, with its drifting leaves, will see
The students and their teachers crawl to schools,
And there, their labors, which could be of love,
Will turn to joyless tasks, as madness rules.

Then winter – with its chilling winds and snows,
A season for reflection and reserve,
But subject now to more of lunacy,
With silent solstice turned to loud bazaar.

And spring will come, with all its hope and lust –
And even these, in turn, will turn to dust,
Unless, perhaps, as pole inclines to sun,
Our souls awake – and nightmares end at last.

The seasons come and go – and each delights
If only we would dance with seasons' flow.
But how can we, until we're frenzy-free?
We then can move in cadence joyful, slow.

The drums of war, the pipes of finance sound,
As masses march yet faster to their deaths.
Oh pause, we say, and see the ocean, sky,
The land with all its beings...  Question why.

2013 August 6th, Tue. Evening
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

Darkness

Darkness
  
Darkness into Darkness, sightless to the end –
When all are competitors, then who can be a friend?
Darkness into darkness, turned away from light –
When all we see is darkness, what use to us is sight?

Dark and deep the river, ceaseless in its flow –
When everyone is racing, then who can dare to slow?
Dark and deep the river, feel it swirl and rage –
When all around is madness, who listens to the sage?

Darkness into darkness, blindness cannot see –
When all that's good is dying, who wishes then to be?
Darkness into darkness, callous till the end –
When what you do is heartless, how can you be a friend?

2013 June 29th, Sat.
Brooklyn